


Weight of the

by Ladycat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, In Media Res, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This doesn't feel like hell, though.  It feels like Stiles, the searching pressure of his eyes, the weight of his body still keeping Derek pinned and pressed, and his curious, unexpected skill in making Derek feel nothing but good.  He feels <i>good</i>.</p><p>***</p><p>There is no plot here.  Or really story.  There is just porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of the

"Little bitch," is hissed again his neck and Derek can't move. He can _whine_ he finds out, wounded and pathetic, but he can't move. It's only Stiles' weight on his back, the heat of his cock up his ass, but somehow that weight- that _heat_ \- melts through the strength Derek normally has on tap. He feels weak, vulnerable and uncertain while Stiles mouths the back of his neck and calls him a good boy. He should be able to push Stiles away. He can push down _walls_ when he needs to, tear down trees older than God with his bare hands.

He can't push Stiles away.

"See? This is what you needed. I know, baby," Stiles croons, ugly and mean. "Such a good boy. Spread your legs now. I'm going to fuck you again. And you're going to love it."

Stiles does.

And Derek- does. He _does_. He loves it, making all kinds of noises he can't control, his dick achingly hard as Stiles rolls into him with the slow, focused precision of someone who knows what they're doing.

"I watched a lot of porn." Stiles doesn't even sound out of breath and _how._

Derek tries to answer but what comes out is a string of vowels that ends in a hiss as Stiles cups his hand around Derek's hip, gliding over the smooth skin and burrowing underneath. Now, suddenly, Derek can move, arching his hips up and away so warm fingers can curl around his cock. They stroke once, fumbling and uncertain. The second time is surer, confident. The third pulls away something from inside of Derek, broken and hurting and somehow now gone with Stiles' long fingers clenched around his cock, Stiles' cock pressing hard against his prostate.

 _Milking_ , Derek thinks, leaning into the movements. He's too helpless to avoid it. He always has been. The pleasure of it overwhelms him, destroys the guilt and self-loathing the way nothing else ever has (will), and Derek is fucking helpless, a pun that makes him laugh, rough giggles that shake his body like sobs.

"Hey," Stiles says, warm breath at Derek's ear and sharp enough to cut. "Stop it. You were being so good before. I know you can be, Derek. I've seen it. You want to be, and you will for me. I won't do what happened before. I don't want anything else from you. Just this." His hands stroke up, thumb working over the tip until Derek has to cry out, has to shudder like he's been hit. "That's all. Just sex, baby. I'm not what she was. But I can take you to that place, the one she showed you. I can get you there."

The only place she- and it's obvious who _she_ is- ever took him to was hell. Be it the burned carcass of his family, his life, or the dungeon she'd chained him to, it was hell.

This doesn't feel like hell, though. It feels like Stiles, the searching pressure of his eyes, the weight of his body still keeping Derek pinned and pressed, and his curious, unexpected skill in making Derek feel nothing but good. He feels _good_.

It doesn't make sense.

Stiles laughs, a huffing sound that's mostly air and wet and sex that Derek wants to inhale. "It doesn't have to. I'll explain it later, I promise. I'll explain all of it, what I figured out and what we're going to do. It'll be good, you'll see. It'll be fantastic. But first you're going to come, baby," Stiles hasn't once said his name since this started, just _baby_ or _boy_ (always with 'good' attached, and fuck if Derek doesn't shiver every time he hears it), "and then maybe again when I do. I want to see you fall apart before I put you back together. But I will. I _will_ put you back together. I promise."

And weirdly enough Derek relaxes to hear that. Stiles keeps his promises. He scratches and claws and snarks at the world, he stumbles and fumbles like any boy learning how to be a man, but in this Stiles has always been absolutely consistent. If he makes a promise, he keeps it.

Derek doesn't know how to be put back together. There's no glue out there that can fix eleven deaths.

Only Stiles promised. And Stiles is moving faster now, hips snapping. He's focused on _Derek_ is a slow, dawning realization accompanied by moans and pants Derek can't stop. This is about Derek's pleasure, Derek's release- and it's that thought he comes too, whining like a pup and burying his face in the pillow to hide it.

Stiles works him through it and doesn't stop. It hurts, but Stiles doesn't stop. Derek can't figure out how to make him. His hands are balled into sweaty fists, nails dug into his palms; he can't move them. He can't do anything as Stiles breathes and stays exactly where he is, only his hand moving up and down along Derek's cock until the pain goes incandescent, tight in his gut and burning in his lungs- and suddenly Derek is getting hard again.

"That's it," Stiles says. "That's it, good boy. Better, right? I bet you feel better now. I'll get you better still when you come again. I told you, I'm going to help. This is going to help."

"This is going to get you off," Derek growls, the sudden splutter of words catching him off guard.

Stiles laughs. It isn't nice. "I didn't say I was doing this for free. Now, up, there we go. Better angle."

It is, but only because Derek is making those _noises_ again, Stiles' cock hitting him somehow even more perfectly than before.

"I'm going to mount you now," Stiles says, the animal terminology insulting and wanted at the same time. How Stiles knew- but how Stiles knows anything is a puzzle Derek hasn't figure out. "I'm going to breed you like you need to be. And then I'm going to stick a plug that's way too big for you here," he rolls his hips for emphasis, "to make sure you know exactly what you are."

He's the _Alpha_ , Derek wants to say. Only he can't because Stiles has his hands pressing on Derek's fists. He always forgets that Stiles is the same height as him, his arms and legs still coltish and gangly, promising a few more inches of growth to come. He's lean against Derek's muscle but he isn't weak. Nothing about Stiles is weak.

That, somehow, more than anything, is proof that Derek doesn't know what he is. Alpha or man or werewolf. Friend or foe- he doesn't _know_. The confusion makes him whine but Stiles is there, mouthing along his spine and neck, his cock pressing up in a slow, easy rhythm. The tension in his body is unreal and Derek can't count his heartbeats, the pound of it so fast it blurs into one unending song.

"Yeah, that's it. That's what you are," Stiles says, nonsensical. It's the first time since Derek arrived, since somehow they ended up this way. "You'll see. I'll show you how to be so good. Such a _good_ boy. Because you want to be."

And once again, Derek does. He wants to be good.

He rocks his hips back, taking more of Stiles' cock, actively participating as he's spread wider as Stiles relentlessly fucks into him. Just like he knew before Stiles was focusing on him, now he's just a body, just there to be used for Stiles' pleasure. That it doesn't have to be him, doesn't even need to be. Stiles just wants to fuck something and Derek is here, ready to take it.

Wanting to take it (be good).

When Derek comes it's to Stiles' panted _good bitch_ panted in his ear, his ass already slick and wet with Stiles' come. It's one of the best orgasms of his life and he collapses, feeling empty and calm for the first time in forever. He feels _good_ and doesn't know what the hell to do with it.

Stiles kisses behind his ear. "Good boy," he says, and, "stop thinking, it's okay. I'll do the thinking for both of us."

So Derek does. He stops thinking and lets his mind go blank under the weight of Stiles' body, their sweat and spunk cooling on their skin. It's good. _Nice_.

"I'll put you back together," Stiles says, so low that Derek has to focus to make out the words beneath the reverberating hum in his chest. "You'll see. I can help, I always say I can."

He does say that, Derek knows, and for every plan of Stiles' that doesn't work, at least two or three do.

Derek closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the two of them together. It smells good. Rich and heady. "'K," he says back. "Okay."

Stiles doesn't react beyond rubbing his face into the back of Derek's neck. "Never knew muscle was so comfortable."

It shouldn't make Derek feel good but it does, and the following _good boy_ and _stay, just like this_ does too.

So he stays. Just like that.

Stiles falls asleep with his cock still in Derek's ass. It isn't quite the plug that Derek can see if he turns his head just a little- not too much, or that will wake up Stiles- black and thick and bulbous at the bottom- but it works pretty much the same as what Stiles wanted. He can figure that out now because the fullness of Stiles, of being _had_ , is sweet as poppies in full bloom and just as addictive. 

Derek falls asleep like falling off a cliff.

He doesn't dream. Not once. It's the first time since another person called him boy with that saccharine falseness- only maybe it isn't false, not this time. Because Stiles is still there, tapping away at the computer when Derek wakes back up, smirking and gloriously cruel as he surveys the wrecked mess of his bed and Derek, striped with come and the plug held too tight in his ass.

"Objections?" Stiles asks, like this is a trial he's running.

Derek shakes his head. No, there are none at all.


End file.
